Stolen from me I know not how: my second child, a babe.
That’s fifteen years ago. I was living at Ephesus,
Where such events are regarded as commonish accidents.
I know not where she was taken, have never heard of her since;
And tho’ I have not forgot it, my own experience is,
One does entirely get over the sort of thing—I assure you.
Men. ’Tis kind of you thus to recall your sorrow to comfort mine.
My condolence can make a distinction: the child you lost
Was a daughter, a babe, you say. Clinia was my only son,
Grown up. Besides you admit you were not at all to blame: